I Found My Heart In San Francisco

Book 14

Nurture

By SX Meagher

Part Thirteen

The next afternoon, the fledgling stock moguls kept their planned lunch date and sat in front of Jamie’s computer, watching the real-time stock ticker. "I can’t believe how quickly Palm is going up," Jamie gasped. "It’s absolutely amazing!"

"Offered at 38, and it’s at 145," Ryan nodded slowly. "There are some very wealthy people out there if they get out soon."

"When do you think we should sell short?" Jamie asked.

Ryan checked her watch. "It’s gotta be now," she said. "I’ve gotta be on the bus in thirty minutes. Unless you want to take over …"

"No, no, this has to be a joint decision. Now's fine."

Ryan kissed Jamie’s cheek and said, "I don’t think this is the best way to time stock sales, but duty calls. Call me later and let me know how high it got."

"Will do, Ms. Megabucks."

Giving her one last kiss, Ryan said, "That’s a title I’ll never be able to wrest from you, sweet cheeks. See you later tonight."

"Can't wait," Jamie said. "You, a cheap motel room and a dusty field in Sacramento. What more could a woman want?"

* * * * * *

After they were finished with work for the day, Conor, Kevin and Brian met Catherine at her new home. The roared up in Conor’s black Ram truck, Catherine smiling at the fact that she’d never seen him drive anywhere stealthily.

The men emerged from the truck, each of them carrying a bag with the tools of his trade. Conor had a metal clipboard in his hand and he waved it at Catherine. She got out of her car and hugged each of the men in turn, thinking how nice it was that everyone in the clan was so comfortable with showing affection.

"We’re ready to go," Conor said. "Kevin’s going to check the electrical, Brian will look at the plumbing, heating and air conditioning, and I’ll get up on the roof and do a water test."

"Oh, Conor, do you really have to do that?"

"Yeah, it’s a mistake not to," he said. "A leaky roof can cause more damage than almost any other fault. I’ll be surprised if this one leaks, but I’d feel like a fool if I didn’t test it and you were putting out buckets during our first storm."

"If you’re sure," Catherine said. "I just don’t want any of you to risk injury."

"We risk injury every day," Kevin said. "We’re tradesmen." He struck a heroic pose, throwing out his chest for a moment before Brian gave him a hard jab in the belly.

Conor took his extension ladder from the truck bed, and hefted it over to the side of the house.

As he got it into position and started to raise it, Catherine said, "I’ll go into the house and show Kevin and Brian around. I can’t stand to watch you climb that high."

"This isn’t very high," Conor said, but Catherine had disappeared by the time he’d finished his sentence.

* * * * * *

It took about two hours for the men to check every system thoroughly. Kevin wanted a couple of ground-fault interrupter outlets put into the kitchen, and Brian advised replacing an old section of galvanized pipe with copper. Conor couldn’t find a thing that needed fixing, and he’d looked as hard as he knew how.

"The few little things we found will cost under $500 to fix," Conor said. "You can try to negotiate for the seller to pay for them, or we can do the repairs for you. Materials will be about $100."

"I’d be happy to have you do the work," Catherine said, "but only if I pay your normal rate."

"That’s not how we do it," Brian said, his strong jaw sticking out just the way Ryan’s did when she was being inflexible. "Materials only."

"All right," she said, smiling sweetly at him. "I’ll ask my real estate agent to recommend someone."

"She’s as hard-headed as we are," Kevin said, laughing. "She’d hire a guy off the street before she’d let us work for free."

"Just like Jamie," Brian said, shaking his head.

"Where do you think Jamie got it?" Conor asked. "She’s a chip off the young, beautiful block.

Catherine bumped him with her shoulder and laughed. "I think it’s lovely that you all help each other out, but you’ve all got skills that you use for each other’s benefit. All I have is money, so it’s only fair that I pay for what I receive."

Conor put an arm around her shoulders. "She does have a lot of money," he agreed. "It’s only right that you two should help her lighten her load."

"Now it’s your turn," Catherine said, turning to Conor. "I’d love to put an office in the house, and I’d like for you to help me plan it and get it done."

Conor put his hands over his eyes, crying, "No, no, not me!"

"Yes, you," Catherine said, poking him in the chest. "I need you to help lighten my load, too."

He let out an aggrieved sigh. "When do you want me?"

"How about tomorrow? I’m going to be here to have a termite inspection at around noon."

"That’s good for me. I’m gonna go to Sacramento to see Ryan play, but I think I’ll go over on Sunday."

"Great. That’s when I’m going, too. See you tomorrow … anytime after one o’clock."

"Should I bring you lunch?" he asked.

"No, I never eat lunch," she said. "But feel free to bring something for yourself."

"He’s always got a snack stashed somewhere," Brian said. "He and Ryan eat more than any two of the rest of us."

"Good metabolism," Conor said. "Although if I worked a desk job, I probably couldn’t get through the front door."

* * * * * *

At around six o'clock that afternoon, Jamie reached her lover on the bus. "We sold 3,000 shares at one fifty."

"Wow, we’ve gotta put $675,000 in our margin account. That’s a lotta dough."

"Oh, no we don’t," Jamie said. "It’s already down to one twenty five. We only have to put in $562,500.

"Only you could say ‘only’ when you’re speaking of half a million dollars," Ryan said. "Hey, you're breaking up. Good job on the sale. See you later."

* * * * * *

Jamie knocked on the door of room 215 at the Comfort Inn in Sacramento at 11:00 p.m. As soon as the door opened, she put her hands on Ryan's waist and asked in sing-song fashion, "Guess how much our margin is?"

"I don’t know," Ryan asked excitedly. "How much?"

"$405,000," Jamie cried.

"Jesus! You mean the stock dropped all the way to ninety?"

Momentarily stunned, the blonde asked, "How do you do that so fast?"

"Uhm … math … me … you know the drill," the dark beauty said. "That’s off the hook, babe. We’re making money hand over fist."

"When should we buy? Soon?"

"Nah. Let’s let it ride for a while. I think it’ll continue to drop for a while."

"Well, you’ve been a damn fine prognosticator so far. 3Com closed at eighty-one today. We made over $30 a share by selling when we did."

"Not too shabby," Ryan said.

"I’m really excited about this," Jamie said. "We should celebrate."

"Okay," the taller woman said. "Let’s drink some fine imaginary champagne and eat some of the best caviar that money can’t buy—all paid for with our sham profits."

"Our profits might be fake, but the fun is real," the blonde beamed. "Now strip me and take me to bed, in that order."

* * * * * *

They lay in bed, their bodies entwined. Jamie’s head was on Ryan’s breast and she was nearly asleep from listening to the slow, steady beat of her heart. "What would you do with the money if it were real?" Jamie idly asked.

"Oh … I don’t know. Probably invest most of it. Give as much to my grandparents as they’d take … which isn’t much. Help pay for my cousins to go to university." She chuckled, making Jamie’s head bounce. "Hire someone to impersonate me when I have to take my language proficiency test for grad school."

"Mia could hook you up."

"I’ve been looking around school. It’s hard to find a woman who’s as tall as I am. I’ve had my eyes peeled."

Jamie turned her head and kissed Ryan’s breast. "Why won’t you send your grandparents money now? We’ve got a lot more real money than imaginary money."

Ryan’s shoulders shifted. "Dunno. Still doesn’t seem like mine, I guess. Don’t think it ever will."

"I hate that," Jamie said. "I thought we’d agree that we’d work on putting together a foundation to give most of our money away."

"We will," Ryan said. "But that’s different than giving money to my family."

"How?"

"I don’t know," she mumbled. "It just is."

"It doesn’t make any difference to your grandparents or your cousins. If they need some help …"

"I know, I know. I’ll ask my aunt if she can think of a way to slip my grandparents some cash without their going wild."

"Who’ll be the harder sell?"

"Usually my granny, but I think my grandfather might have a harder time with accepting money—especially from one of his grandchildren. He never made a good living, but he wouldn’t take any assistance—not even used clothes from St. Vincent de Paul. Poor Aunt Moira had to wear Aunt Maeve’s clothes, after my mother had worn them. I don’t think she had one new piece of clothing until both Aunt Maeve and my mother had moved to America."

"Write to her, honey. If we can make them a little more comfortable we just have to find a way."

Ryan shifted her hips and sank lower onto the bed. "’Kay. I’ve gotta do what I promised and start writing to Cate more regularly. I’ve really let that drop."

"You can’t do everything, honey. You have written a couple of times, haven’t you?"

"Yeah. But she doesn’t tell me anything. I don’t think she trusts me."

"Really?"

"Yeah. But she doesn’t trust Aisling, either, so I’m not surprised. I’ve just gotta work harder at gaining her trust." She let out a breath. "One more item on my to-do list." She lay down and turned onto her side, wrapping an arm around Jamie. "G’night."

Jamie kissed her, then turned onto her side. Nice move. You have a night alone and you spend it making her feel bad for more things she doesn’t think she’s doing well.

* * * * * *

On Friday night, the senior softball players went to a bar close to their hotel to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day. Coach Roberts gave them permission to go, and told them they could stay out as late as they wanted. The girls met in the lobby, and were just about to leave when they saw the coach reading Sports Illustrated while sitting in a chair near the door.

"Have a nice time, ladies," he said, not looking up.

"Thanks, Coach," Jackie said. "We’ll have one for you."

"No curfew, right?" she asked.

"Right. I’m gonna sit right here and make out the lineup card for tomorrow. I have a hard time remembering names, so I’ll probably just put down the first people I see as they come home."

"Eleven o’clock?" Ryan asked, smirking at the man.

"That’s a lovely time," he said. "One of my favorites."

"We’ll be here," she said. "Sober."

"That’s one of my second favorite things," he said, taking in a deep breath as though he could smell it. "Ahh … sobriety."

"Are we gonna have to walk a straight line?" Ryan asked.

He looked at her for the first time. "Ryan! You make it sound like I supervise you. You’re adults."

"Yeah, right," she said, turning and giving him a little wave from over her shoulder.

Coach Roberts looked at Jamie, who was smiling at him. "I’m misunderstood."

"I don’t know how you do it, but they understand you better when you try to confuse ’em."

"That’s my secret," he said, winking at her. "I shoulda worked for the government."

* * * * * *

Jim Evans stood at the window of his suite, looking down at the revelers streaming in and out of the hotel. "There must be a big St. Patrick’s Day party here," he said to Kayla.

"I saw signs in the lobby when I came in. It’s some ancient order of something or other."

He turned, a small smile forming when he saw that she was wearing nothing but a tiny white T-shirt and bright green bikinis. "Are you Irish?"

"Yeah, a little," she said. "My mother was some mix of English, Irish and Scottish."

"You look Irish," he said, regarding her thoughtfully. "With your red hair and fair skin. Green’s a very good color for you."

"For my ass?" she asked, turning and wiggling it.

"For all of you," he said. "But it looks awfully good on your ass. Of course, everything does."

She went to him and put an arm around his waist, and they stood together for a few minutes, observing the traffic and the people near the hotel.

"Looks like fun," he finally said. "Do you want to go out? I’m sure we could find someplace close that wouldn’t be filled with kids."

Smiling to herself, she thought of how often he seemed to forget she was a lot closer in age to the kids than she was to him. "No, it’s only fun to go out on St. Paddy’s Day if you’re with a group of friends." Her arm dropped and she moved away, going to sit on the sofa. She picked up the remote and started channel-surfing. "PBS has Great Performances. Les Troyens from Milan. Want that?"

He sat down next to her. "Sure. I’m always up for opera." He relaxed against the sofa. "Have you ever seen Les Troyens performed?"

"No," she said, not elaborating.

"Well, do you want to watch? What would you watch if I weren’t home?"

"I wouldn’t watch TV," she said without hesitation. "When you’re gone, I’m either on my computer or talking on the phone. Well, I might have the TV on," she amended. "But only for background noise. I put on MTV or VH1 … if either of them actually has music on … which isn’t very often."

"What do you do on your computer?" he asked.

She glanced at him out of the side of her eyes. "Why the interest?"

He blinked in surprise. "What?"

"Why are you interested in what I do when you’re not home?"

He frowned at her, wounded. "You’re my lover. Shouldn’t I be interested in what you do?"

"Sure. You should be. But you usually aren’t." She didn’t blink, staring right back into his eyes as he looked at her for a few seconds. "What? You look surprised."

"I am. Don’t you think I care about you?"

She put her hand on his thigh, gently stroking him. "Sure you do. But …" She trailed off and looked away.

"What? Come on, tell me."

She could tell he was getting upset, but she knew she couldn’t turn back now. "You care about me like I care about you."

He stood up, releasing her hand and letting it fall to the cushion. "What in the hell does that mean?"

Her first instinct was to calm him down and distract him. The easiest way to do that was to kiss him and tug him into the bedroom. It was so easy that she’d never even had to think of another trick. But she didn’t want to have sex; she felt like being honest for a change. "We use each other, Jim. We always have. That can’t come as a surprise."

"I thought we’d had this out before," he said, looking very perturbed.

"We’ve skirted around it before, but it’s time to discuss the future. I’m going to have to find a new job soon."

"What? Why?"

She sighed. "We’ve talked about this. I can’t go back to the firm. Everyone knows about our affair. I’ll never have credibility in the San Francisco legal community again. I think I have to stay here."

"Here? As in Washington?"

"Yeah. I don’t think anyone will hold our affair against me." She laughed bitterly. "It might even help me."

"So this is a done deal? You’re definitely not going back to San Francisco with me?"

"With you?" Now she was surprised. "What are you asking?"

His eyes grew a little wide. "Uhm … just that I thought we’d work together and live together. I’d love to have you as my deputy."

"Oh. Right." She shook her head. "No thanks. I’ve got ten years to make a name for myself while I’m still young. Then, when I get older, people will stop looking at me like a piece of ass and start paying attention to what I know. I can’t spend my prime time riding your coattails."

He stumbled a little as he grasped for a chair and sat down heavily. "Is that all I am to you? A vehicle?"

She glared at him. "Why are you playing the victim here? You know just what you wanted when you started flirting with me. You wanted a young woman who was naïve enough to sleep with you and be discrete about it. You had a plan."

His glare matched hers. "And you didn’t?"

Kayla was silent for a minute. She turned her head, gazing at a picture on the wall, then she swept her crimson hair from the side of her face and lay her cheek against the back of the sofa. "Not at first," she said quietly. "I hadn’t been at the firm very long, and I hadn’t heard much gossip. I was … really flattered that I got to work with you when I was a new associate. I thought they’d picked me because they thought I had a lot of potential." She turned her head and stared at Jim for a few seconds. "You asked for me, didn’t you?"

"Uhm … I don’t recall. I uhm … might have mentioned—"

She cut him off. "Spare me. I’m sure your list consisted of Melanie Angelos and me. You lucked out. She’s gay."

Jim turned away from her, striding over to the window, where he let his head rest against the cool glass. He didn’t say a word, so she continued.

"I was so dumb." She let out a short, wry laugh. "I honestly thought that you and I had something special. I knew you were married, of course, but I assumed that you’d divorce your wife so we could be together." She sniffled, and wiped a few tears from her cheek. "I’ll never forget the day I was having lunch with a couple of people who’d been at the firm for a few years. One of the guys started teasing me about keeping my distance from you. That’s when I found out that I wasn’t the first—and that I wouldn’t be the last."

He turned and leaned against the window, staring at her in stunned silence. Finally he asked, "Why didn’t you tell me to fuck off?"

"It wasn’t that easy," she said. "I knew word would get out. And once people knew, it didn’t matter if I’d slept with you once or a thousand times. So, I swallowed my pride and decided to get what I could out of the relationship. And, to be honest, I think we’ve both come out of it pretty well. You wanted me because of how I looked, and you got a bonus because I also know what I’m doing and I’ve helped you. I got the bonus of coming to Washington with you."

"Do you care about me or not?" Jim demanded.

He looked like he might cry, and she had no stomach for that. She spoke sharply, trying to make him angry so he’d stop whining. "I care about you just as much as you care about me. Do you want to get married? Have children?" She paused for a second and said with added emphasis, "Be faithful?"

Jim paled and moved to an upholstered chair, where he sat quietly for a moment. When he looked up, she was next to him.

She sat on the arm of his chair and touched his chin, lifting it so they could see each other’s eyes. "Is that what you want?"

He shook his head. "No. I don’t want to get married again, and I certainly don’t want to have more children." He cocked his head and asked, "Is that what you want? You’ve never mentioned anything like that before."

She dropped her hand. "I want it if I can have it," she said. "If I can’t, then I want a kick-ass career. I can’t have either with you, and there’s no use getting sentimental over it."

"Jesus, you sound so … hard."

Kayla got up and returned to the sofa. Looking at him for a long time, her eyes burning with intensity, she finally said, "You’d like it better if I threatened to hang myself, wouldn’t you."

Her tone was bitterly cold, and Jim felt himself shiver. "Why in the fuck would I want that?"

With a wry, astringent smile, she asked, "Am I the first one who played the game like you do?"

"What game?"

Kayla looked at him like he was slow and thick-headed. "The sex game. The cheating game. The ‘I’ll use you until I tire of you’ game." She blinked when she saw the hurt on his face. "Don’t even try to tell me you don’t think of this as a game."

"It’s not," he said, indignant. "I’ve never thought of our relationship as a game, and it’s very disturbing to learn that you do!"

She got up and went to the bar. She didn’t offer to make anything for Jim, but spent a few thoughtful minutes making herself a margarita. When she was finished she sat down on the sofa and took a sip. Conversationally, she said, "I can name four women at the firm with whom you’ve had affairs. Each one is about four years younger than the last, and rumor has it that you dumped each of them when a younger, more … shall we say … malleable one came along." She took another sip, savoring the tart tang of the drink. "Coincidence?"

"Yes!" He got up and stalked over to the windows, his back to Kayla. "I was married. I couldn’t afford to have significant, long-term relationships with other women. It was just … fun."

"Fun," she repeated. "Kinda like a … oh, I don’t know … a game?"

"You make it sound so conniving," he muttered. "Like I used them."

"You did," she said. "And they used you. All of them have done pretty well at the firm. I’d say they’ve kept up with the men in their peer group, and that’s all a woman can hope for."

"But you say you can’t return to the firm," he said, turning to look at her again. "If they’ve done well, why can’t you?"

"Because I don’t want to be number five on the list. I mean … I am number five, but I don’t want that to be how I’m referred to at work. If I leave, people will forget me after a while and put your next conquest in the number five spot."

He looked more aggrieved than she’d ever seen him. "People really refer to those women that way?"

She laughed at his naïveté. "Of course they do. Being your ex gives a woman a certain degree of security. No one knows many details, but everyone’s a little leery about crossing them. If you let them stay at the firm, you must still have a little place in your heart for them, and that’s reason enough to steer clear."

Walking to the bar, he said, "I never knew. I swear, I didn’t know."

"How many people tell you the truth?" she asked, cocking her head. "Does anyone?"

He stopped in the middle of pouring a glass of scotch. Thinking for a moment, he said, "I guess you’re the only one." He put down the bottle and walked over to her, then sat next to her on the sofa. "That’s why I need you to go back to San Francisco with me. You’re more than a fling to me, Kayla. I’ve really come to rely on you. I trust you."

She reached down and took his hand, then smoothed her thumb across his skin. "I’m glad to hear that. I really am. I trust you, too … about work."

"But not personally?" His eyes narrowed, reflecting his suspicions.

"No, not personally. I can’t trust a man who cheats on his wife."

"You cheated with me," he said indignantly. "You’re as much to blame as I am."

She patted his hand as she would a child’s. "No, that’s not true. You were married, I wasn’t. And even if you’d never met me, you’d still be a cheater. If I’d never met you, I wouldn’t be one."

"So … you’ve …?"

"Never," she said. "And I’ll never do it again. I still don’t know why I did it. I guess I was genuinely attracted to you and thought we could be discreet enough to fly under the radar. I was just stupid," she said without any rancor in her voice.

"Do you regret it?" he asked, carefully looking into her eyes.

Once again she gave him a reassuring pat on the leg. "No, not really. I told you—I’m attracted to you. I think we work well together, and I’ve learned a lot."

"So, how do you think of me?"

"Mmm … I think of you as my boyfriend. I know it’s not permanent, but I’m happy with you. I’d like this to continue until it doesn’t work for one or the other of us, then we should let it go."

"Just like that?"

"Yeah. Just like that. I’ll miss you, but I’m not in love with you, Jim. I put away that delusion when I found out about your history." She waited a moment, trying to decide if she should say what was on her mind. Deciding to, she added, "I think your wife is the only one who ever really loved you."

Annoyed, he asked, "How can you know that? You’ve met her once."

"True. But she’s very attractive, very youthful looking, and very wealthy. Maybe she has her own string of lovers, but it doesn’t seem logical that she would have stayed married all of those years if she didn’t love you."

"She did," Jim said solemnly. "I betrayed her time and again, and she forgave me each time but this one. I think she saw there was more between you and me than just sex."

"There is," Kayla said. "But she made a mistake in thinking that extra bit was love. It isn’t."

"How do you know I don’t love you?" Jim asked. "Would it make a difference?"

"No," she said immediately. "That wouldn’t change my mind. Besides," Kayla added, gentling her voice, "if you can’t love your wife, a woman you promised to love, I don’t know that you’re capable of it. I’m sorry to say that, Jim, but if you don’t love the mother of your child, you might just not be able to love a woman."

He didn’t say a word. Returning to the bar, he finished pouring his drink then returned to sit next to her. He used the remote to switch to the PBS station and settled down to watch Les Troyens, thinking of the night he and Catherine had seen it performed at La Scala. He could feel Kayla’s body next to his, but he consciously tried to recall how it had felt to have Catherine pressed against him in the narrow seats, the lovely music washing over them, the light, floral scent of Catherine’s perfume that he noticed every time he turned his head to whisper a little something to her.

She’s probably been there with her boyfriend by now. He sat up a little, his stomach aching each time he thought of her with that man. She was only mine, he thought. Only mine.

* * * * * *

At one o’clock on Saturday, Conor arrived at Catherine’s new house. He had to park about fifteen blocks away, and while walking to the house, he decided that he’d better borrow Ryan’s motorcycle if he was going to be making it a regular trek.

He knocked on the door and she answered, looking very, very casual for Catherine Evans. He took in the blue chambray, man-style shirt and the buff-colored Capri pants and waggled his eyebrows. "You look mighty fine today, Catherine."

"I thought I might have to climb up on the roof with the inspector."

He waited for a second, then realized she was teasing him. "You look dressed-up to me, but if this is casual, it really works for you. Is the inspector finished?"

"Yes. He left just before you got here. Ready to brainstorm?"

"Sure am." He opened his nylon briefcase and took out a legal pad and a pencil. "Tell me everything you’d like in an office and we’ll see if we can get it done."

They spent the better part of three hours discussing which bedroom should be converted, what kind of lighting she wanted, how many electrical appliances she would be using, and a dozen other details. At four o’clock she looked at her watch and said, "No wonder I’m tired."

"And hungry," he said, smiling.

"Did you have lunch?"

"Oh, sure. I always have lunch. I just usually have a snack at 3:00 or 4:00."

"You know, I’m hungry, too. Do you have plans for dinner?"

"Huh-uh." He looked contemplative for a moment and said, "You know, I thought we’d go over to Maeve’s for dinner all of the time, but Kevin and Rory and I wind up ordering pizza or stopping for burritos most nights. Things have really changed."

"Does it bother you?" Catherine asked, concerned.

"No, not really. I’m almost twenty-nine. It’s time for me to stop relying on my father to make dinner for me." He let out a low laugh. "Time to find a woman to take over for him."

"I have a feeling you’re not ready to settle down yet," Catherine said, giving him an appraising glance.

"You never know. You don’t have any sisters or cousins or …"

"No, Conor," she said, smiling at him. "I’m the only single woman in my family right now. Jim has a sister, though."

"No offense to Jim, but I think I’d like your side of the family better. That is where the fortune is, right?"

She patted him on the back. "That’s right. I suppose you’ll have to wrest Jamie away from Ryan."

"Like I haven’t tried!"

* * * * * *

Catherine refused to go out for dinner, insisting that only a natural disaster would compel her to appear in public in such casual clothes. Conor was happy to go to the Mission and pick up Mexican, but Catherine insisted on providing a proper dinner for him. She called a service that delivered meals from some of the best restaurants in the city, ordering a selection of appetizers and two entrees, just to make sure Conor had enough to eat.

The feast arrived quickly, and they laughed as they set it out on the dining room table. The seller hadn’t left any linens or dishes, so she set the foil containers directly on the wood. "My mother would turn over in her grave if she saw me doing this," Catherine said. "Actually, she’d faint to see me dressed this way."

"We always ate at the table, but there wasn’t much of a dress code … except for Sunday dinner."

Catherine started to sit, but she stopped and stood up quickly. "Utensils!"

"Utensils," Conor said, nodding gravely. "Plastic won’t work, huh?"

"I bought you a nice steak," she said. "I can’t imagine a plastic knife will get through it."

"Knife … knife …" He brightened, saying, "Hold tight. I’ve got just the thing." He walked to his truck, grousing to himself about the dearth of parking in the city. When he finally reached the vehicle, he pulled out a small bag of tools he always carried, then ran back into the house. "Snap-off cutters!" he exclaimed, holding them in the air. "We break off a couple of blades, and they’re like brand new."

Catherine extended her hand and Conor dropped an orange one into her palm. "I’ve never seen one of these," she said, curiously investigating it. "How does it work?"

He showed her, then they both sat down and started to eat. Catherine didn’t need the knife, since she only picked at a couple of appetizers and ate a good portion of the salad Nicoise. But Conor made good use of his tool, ripping through nearly everything that Catherine didn’t consume.

"Your appetite is even healthier than your sister’s," Catherine observed, watching Conor eat his steak in a very determined fashion.

He grinned. "Da says we all eat like polite wolves." He gestured with his fork while he swallowed. "But it’s his fault. He used to serve the food on a big platter, so the faster you ate—the more you got. He should have divided the portions in the kitchen. Then we wouldn’t have gotten into the habit of eating like beasts."

"It’s nice to see people who enjoy food," she said. "I still have a love/hate relationship with it."

Cocking his head, he gave her a puzzled look. "You hate food?"

She moved a tiny bit of seared tuna around on her paper plate. "In a way." She looked like she was going to avoid answering, but then she looked him in the eye and said, "I debate over every bite."

"Huh?" His voice was several decibels louder than it had previously been.

"You heard me," she said, looking a little embarrassed and shy. Her brown eyes were mostly downcast, and her chin was tilted away when she snuck a quick look at him. "I have a running argument with myself over every bite of food I eat. I always try to eat as much salad and vegetables as I need to satisfy my hunger, then I let myself have a few bites of something really tasty … like this tuna," she said. "It’s divine," she said in a near whisper, her voice taking on a sultry tone. "But I’m fairly sure I’ll be full enough without it. So I’m arguing with myself about whether I should eat it or not."

"Eat it," Conor said immediately. "When in doubt, give into temptation."

Catherine smiled fondly at the young man. "You sound so much like your sister."

"She sounds like me," Conor said, then got back to the point. "You don’t have to starve yourself," he insisted. "I … don’t wanna get into your business … but you’re awfully skinny … I mean, thin. You’ve lost a lot of weight in the last few months, haven’t you?"

She nodded and gave him a brittle smile. "I was getting a lot of calories from vodka."

He ignored the import of her statement and said, "So eat a little more. You can’t treat food like it’s toxic. It’s one of the best things about being human. There’s a reason we have so many taste buds, ya know."

"I have always … treated it like it’s poison," Catherine said. "Being thin wasn’t just encouraged at my house, it was required. My mother regarded extra pounds with disgust."

She was quiet for a moment, but Conor could see that she had more to say. He could see her struggle.

"I was bulimic in high school and college."

"Is that when you …" He drew a line from his stomach to his mouth.

"Yes. I’d sneak into the kitchen and take a fresh box of cookies and eat every one. Then I’d go down to dinner and eat next to nothing, then vomit afterwards. It was the only way I could … I guess … rebel."

"Uhm … how long has your mother been gone?"

"It’ll be twenty-three years in June."

Conor softened his voice and reached across the containers of food to gently touch her knee. "Isn’t it time to started listening to yourself? Your mom didn’t give you very good advice, Catherine. You don’t have to listen to her anymore."

She looked at him and saw his genuine concern for her. It touched her in a way that nearly took her breath away. Blindly, she patted his hand, and he removed it from her knee. "I’ll … I’ll think about that," she said. She took a breath and managed a smile. "Catherine Deneuve has said that a woman has to make a decision when she reaches middle age. You have to choose your ass or your face."

Conor’s eyes widened and he looked as shocked as he would have if she’d belched. "What? Choose them for what?"

She laughed, a genuine one this time. "Which part you want to keep looking good. If you choose your face, you need to add weight to keep it full. You won’t have as many wrinkles, but your derriere and hips will be a lot bigger. If you choose your ass, you can stay thin, but you’ll look your age. A thin face starts to look haggard." She gave him a rueful smile. "Of course, most women in my peer group stay thin and start having plastic surgery at thirty-five. I’m already overdue."

"You can put off that decision for a good ten years," Conor said. "And I hope you decide to leave that beautiful face alone. I think plastic surgery is a crock." He gave her his boyish, devilish smile. "Except for breast implants, that is. Those rock."

She reached over and grabbed a lock of his hair and gave it a good tug. "You, Mr. O’Flaherty, are incorrigible."

"I’ll take that as a compliment," he said, still grinning.

"That’s exactly how I meant it," Catherine said.

* * * * * *

After cleaning up from dinner, they gathered their things and started to walk to Catherine’s car. They walked up Divisidero, both of them silent until Catherine said, "I’ve been thinking of asking you for a favor, but I want you to promise that you’ll say no if you’re uncomfortable with it."

"Uhm, okay, I think I can do that."

"First off: do you own a tuxedo?"

Conor chuckled. "The last tux I wore was to my high school prom. I think I weigh about fifty pounds more than I did then, so even if I did own it, I couldn’t get it on."

"How would you like me to buy you a nice tux in exchange for putting up with some of the most two-faced, insufferable women in the entire Bay Area?"

"Hmm … Boy, you sure would make a good salesperson." Conor scratched his head and made a face. "Before I give you my answer I have one question—will you be there?"

"Of course."

"Then it sounds like a blast, whatever it is," he said. "You don’t have to buy me a tux, though. I can rent one."

"No offense to the rental houses, Conor, but those suits look like they’re rented. This is a very elegant event, and I can’t have my escort looking less than top-notch."

"I can pay for my own suit, you know. I can get one for a few hundred dollars, can’t I?"

Catherine put her hand on his arm. "I’m inviting you as my guest, Conor. This isn’t the kind if thing you’d go to on your own, so I’d really like to buy your suit. Is that all right?"

"Sure," he said, nodding. "A couple hundred won’t do it, will it?"

"Sadly, no," she admitted. "Now, the event’s in a couple of weeks, so we’re cutting it close here. Can you make some time this week to go shopping? We’ll have to work some magic to get the suit altered in time, but I think we can manage."

Thinking that Catherine could probably charm any tailor in town into working overtime, he said, "Sure. I can be free any day after 4:00. Name the place and the time. Uhm … I can act like myself at this thing, can’t I?" he asked with a touch of hesitancy. "I mean, you don’t want me to impersonate a guy with class, do you?"

She took his arm. "Conor, I couldn’t dream up a man that would be one shred more interesting than you are. Of course I want you to be yourself."

"Just checking." He gave her a smile. "Let’s make a deal. I’ll try to act like myself and not feel like a fish out of water, and you try to not give a crap about how much you eat or what your friends think of you."

Catherine’s eyes got big and she considered his proposal as they neared her car. She opened the locks and put her things on the passenger seat. "It’s a deal," she said at last. "I’ll do my best to go to one of these events and actually have a good time."

"It’s guaranteed," Conor said, confidence nearly oozing from him.

* * * * * *

Charles Evans was working on his sermon for the week when his phone rang. He was in the middle of a thought and was going to let the machine answer, but changed his mind on the fourth ring. "Hello?"

"Senator James Evans is calling for Reverend Charles Evans. Is this Reverend Evans?"

"Yes, it is," Charles said, smiling to himself.

"Will you hold one moment for the senator?"

"Yes, but just a moment," he said, "I’m a very busy man." But the secretary had already put him on hold, and he decided she probably wouldn’t have gotten his joke, anyway.

"Dad?"

"Senator Evans?" he asked, sounding excited. "Is it really you?"

"Okay, okay," Jim said, laughing. "I guess it is a little pompous to have my secretary make my personal calls."

"Just a little, son, but I’m always glad to hear from you, even if I have to get through a layer or two of the bureaucracy. How are you?"

"I’m good. A little bored, but good."

"Bored? My tax dollars are paying your salary. Get busy!"

Jim laughed. "I’m a lame duck, Dad. Everyone has turned his attention to the November election. I’m just keeping this chair warm until January when I hope Bob Washington is going to fill it."

"His competition is making things easier for him. The Republican candidates went after each other with hammer and tongs. They really injured each other during the primary. And I don’t think the better man won."

"I don’t either," Jim said.

"I think Washington should win fairly easily."

"Yeah, I do, too. He’s a good man. I think he’ll fit in here."

"So … I’m sure you didn’t call to get political advice. What’s on your mind?"

"You have been," Jim said. "I miss seeing you, Dad, and I haven’t been able to come home as often as I thought I would. So I thought I might be able to talk you into coming to visit me for a few days."

"I’m sorry you miss me, but I’m a little glad, too. Parents like to be needed."

"I’m serious, Dad. I know you can’t get away on weekends, but I thought you might be able to come out on a Sunday evening and stay until Wednesday or Thursday. We could visit some sites, have lunch in the Senate dining room … do some touristy things I haven’t done."

"You really want me to come?" Charles asked.

"Yes, of course I do. Why else would I ask?"

"I don’t know," Charles said. "It just seems odd to think of visiting you. I guess having you live so close by all of your life makes this seem extraordinary."

"I think we’d have fun," Jim said. "But I’ll understand if you’re not able to come."

"No, I’d like to," Charles said. "I haven’t been in Washington for many, many years. Have they finished the Lincoln Memorial yet?"

Laughing, Jim said, "Yeah, they have. There’s a bridge over the Potomac, too."

"Well, that I’ve got to see. When do you want me?"

"Whenever you can make it. I don’t have anything I can’t get out of for the rest of the month."

"Then we should probably do it soon," Charles said, "so nothing comes up."

"Great," Jim said. "I’ll fly you out tomorrow night."

"That soon?"

"Yeah, why not?"

"You have to buy tickets two weeks in advance. You can’t do things like this at the last minute!"

"Sure you can," Jim said. "Don’t give it another thought. I’ll make all the arrangements."

"Now, don’t go to a lot of trouble. I can sleep on your couch."

"Okay, Dad. I’ll just get you a newspaper to keep the light out of your eyes, and you can sleep in the lobby."

"You got your mother’s sense of humor," Charles said. "But I’m still happy that you called, Jim. I’m looking forward to seeing you."

"Me, too, Dad. See you late tomorrow night."

* * * * * *

I Found My Heart In San Francisco

Book 14

Nurture

By SX Meagher

Part Fourteen

On Sunday afternoon, Jamie and Catherine sat at the end of a row of spectators that included Maeve, Martin, Jennie, Conor and Rory. The women intentionally tried to sit at the far end of a row during games so they could chat. They both loved showing their support for Ryan, but Jamie was only really interested when Ryan was playing, and Catherine couldn’t even summon much enthusiasm at that point. But she loved to be with the family, and she took every opportunity she could to spend time with her daughter.

"Did I tell you about my dilemma in trying to find a date for the Opera Guild dinner?" Catherine asked.

Jamie turned to her with a puzzled glance. "No, I didn’t know you were having trouble. Why didn’t you tell me?"

"It wasn’t a very big issue, honey. As a matter of fact, I was thinking of asking your father to go with me just to make everything appear normal. But that gossipy little item in the newspaper about our divorce ruined that plan," she said, making a face.

"Are you going alone? ’Cause I’d love to go with you," Jamie said, trying her best to sound sincere.

Catherine laughed. "Oh, honey, that’s so sweet of you. But I know you’d rather watch paint dry than go to one of those events. Besides, you’ve had enough people staring at you this year. And if you needed another reason, Cassie’s mother will be there. I can only imagine how much pleasure she’d get in saying something rude to you."

"Gosh, you sure do make it sound like a fun night. Do you have to go?"

"Since I’m the chairperson, it would be a good idea. But don’t worry. I’ve found the perfect escort."

"Who’s that?"

"Conor," Catherine said, looking very pleased with herself.

"Conor?"

"What?" the young man asked, leaning forward in his seat.

"Oh. Nothing," Jamie said. "I was just … I forget," she added, turning red.

He gave her a look that questioned her sanity, then sat back to watch the action on the field.

"Conor?" the blonde asked again, quieter this time. "You’re taking Conor to the dinner?"

"Yes. Why does that surprise you so?"

"He’s … he’s Conor." Jamie said. "People will think you hired him from an escort service."

Clapping her hands together, Catherine said, "Goodness, I hope so."

"Are you all right? Everyone will be talking about you."

"They will be anyway," Catherine said lightly. "I might as well give them something good to talk about. I think we’ll have a great time, and that’s all that matters to me. I’m not going to stand for re-election, so I won’t have to meet with the vipers who most annoy me every month. I’m free!"

"Mom! You’ve been on the board of the Opera Guild … for … forever."

"Only since you were a child," Catherine said. "I suppose that seems like forever, but it’s really not. It’s time for some new blood to get some power."

"You’re hardly a relic. Don’t give this up if you don’t want to."

"I wouldn’t," Catherine said, looking very confident about her decision. "I’m tired of seeing the same old faces and hearing the same petty gossip. I’ll give more money to take the place of my labor. From now on I’m going to enjoy the opera as a spectator, nothing more. I’m sure I’ll enjoy it more if I don’t know about all of the squabbling that goes on behind the scenes."

"Wow," Jamie said. "I thought you’d always be connected to the Guild. This is really a big deal."

"Not for me," Catherine said. "I’m trying to divest myself of the things that haven’t adding something positive to my life. I still want to do some charity work, but I’m going to find programs that appeal to me on a different level. Maybe I’ll work with literacy programs or music education or something more down to earth."

"Okay," Jamie said, having trouble digesting the news.

"This is good news," Catherine said, sensing Jamie’s doubts. "I’m getting rid of the things in my life that have been holding me back, making me feel stuck and unproductive."

Jamie summoned a smile and said, "If quitting makes you happy, I’m happy. But I think I might have to go to the dinner just to watch Conor flirt."

"Laura Martin and I are the new girls in the Guild," Catherine said. "The other women still call us that, by the way. Conor won’t find many women from his generation."

"I’ve seen him flirt with octogenarians," Jamie said. "He flirts with anyone with a double X chromosome."

"Marvelous! That’ll make people even more certain he’s a paid escort." Catherine giggled, a sound Jamie was hearing more often, and loving more each time she heard it. "This is going to be fun!"

* * * * * *

After the game, Jamie and Jennie stood outside of the players’ dressing room. Ryan walked out with Heather, and they all said hello. "Want a ride back to Berkeley, Heather?" Jamie asked.

"Sure. If you have room."

"It’s just Jen and me," Jamie said. "My mom brought Conor and Rory, and Martin and Maeve drove up separately."

"Great. I’m always happy not to have to ride on the bus."

Jamie tossed Ryan the keys, and they walked to the parking lot together, where they spent a few minutes speaking to the rest of the family. When they were finally ready to leave, Ryan opened the doors and put her and Heather’s bags in the back, then she went to sit in the passenger seat. Surprised, Jamie looked at her. "You don’t want to drive?"

"Nah. I’m tired." The blonde was still staring at her, making Ryan finally ask, "What? I can’t be tired?"

"Sure you can. But you don’t look tired, and you don’t act tired."

"I’m stealth-tired. It’s under the radar. Let’s go, okay? I’m also hungry."

"Well at least that’s an indication of normalcy," Jamie said, accepting the keys from her lover.

Heather and Jennie were in the back seat, and they were both quiet, sensing some tension between their friends. Jamie bore a pensive expression, and Ryan looked a little fidgety. To break the silence, Jennie said, "I got my test back, and I got an ‘A’. Thanks for helping me, Heather."

"Hey, that’s great, Jen," Heather said. "Ashley just asked me if you’d gotten it back yet. She’s always worried about grades—even when they’re not hers."

"My offer still stands to help you with French whenever you need it," Jamie said.

"I know. But one of my girlfriends is from France, and we do our homework together. It’s kinda like being able to do your homework with a teacher."

"She’s not doing it for you, is she?" Jamie asked.

"No … not … really," Jennie said.

"Jennie …"

"She doesn’t do it for me, Jamie. She’s just there when I get stuck."

"Just make sure you do the work to get yourself unstuck," Jamie said. "That’s how you learn."

"I’m learning a lot," Jennie said. "We send notes to each other in French, and I have to figure them out. Sometimes it takes me all day!"

"Ryan’s taking French," Jamie said, sneaking a look at her lover, who was slumped in her seat, staring blankly out the window.

Giggling, Jennie said, "Yesterday my note said, ‘Oh, la vache! Le paquet de devoirs qu’il fiche aux potaches, ce prof … ce n’est pas croyable! Je crois qu’il est sado!’"

Jamie laughed. "You’re using some pretty good slang there, Jen. But will any of that be on your tests?" She looked at Ryan. "Did you get any of that, honey?"

"I heard, ‘Oh, the cow.’ But I doubt you were talking about farming." She said this with such a flat affect that Jamie wanted to pin her down and figure out what was going on. But she couldn’t do that with Jennie and Heather in the car. So she took the first exit and went to a gas station. "Will you guys use my Speed-pass to fill up the car?"

"I don’t know how," Jennie said, even while she eyed the key fob that Jamie handed her.

"You’re smart girls. You’ll figure it out. Ryan, will you come inside with me?"

"For what?"

Jamie gave her a sweet smile. "Because I asked you to."

Without comment, Ryan opened her door and got out, seemingly taking a lot of energy to accomplish the task. She followed Jamie into the bathroom, and stood there with her hands in her pockets. "What’s up?"

"You’re not," Jamie said, touching her on the shoulder. "What’s bothering you?"

"Nuthin. I’ve gotta pee."

She walked into the stall, obviously expecting her partner to leave the room, but Jamie recognized a subterfuge when she saw one. She stayed right where she was, asking again, "Tell me."

There was a prolonged silence, during which Ryan managed to produce an ounce of urine. She came out and washed her hands while Jamie leaned against a sink and stared at her. "I’m supposed to be giving her music lessons every week. I don’t think I’ve had time to do it twice since I gave her the damned clarinet."

Shoulders slumping in dismay, Jamie said, "She understands. I bet she doesn’t have time anyway. And Rory’s still teaching her some theory. It’s not a bad idea to learn how to read music before you play an instrument."

Ryan dropped her head and mumbled, "I promised."

Jamie knew there was no way to assuage her partner’s guilt, so she didn’t even try. She slapped her lover on the shoulder and said, "Then you’ll have to make it up to her this summer. You’ll have her playing like a champ if you both put your minds to it."

Ryan nodded. "Yeah. I guess that’s the answer."

Jamie put her hand around her waist and walked with her to the narrow door. "It’ll be all right, honey. No one expects as much from you as you expect from yourself."

With a thin smile, Ryan said, "You’re not the first to mention that."

* * * * * *

Jim Evans sat in the back seat of a Mercedes sedan with the car idling curbside at Reagan National Airport. There were signs next to the car decreeing that only "Official U.S. Government Business" was to be conducted, but it was commonplace for members of Congress to be picked up and dropped off in the spot.

He saw his father walk out of the terminal, and both he and the chauffeur alighted. Jim waved and caught his father’s attention, and Charles got just a few feet before the chauffeur was at his side taking his bag. "Oh, you don’t have to—"

The gray-haired man gave him a businesslike smile. "It’s my job, sir. Allow me."

Charles released his bag and let the man carry it to the car and tuck it into the trunk. "Dad! It’s great to see you!" Jim gave his father a surprisingly warm hug, then opened the rear door of the car. "Hop in, Dad." He dashed around to the other side and let the chauffeur hold and then close his door. "Good flight?"

"Yes, it was very nice," Charles said. "But you didn’t have to put me in business class, son."

"Oh, please. It’s nothing. Really."

"I was glad I didn’t wear my clerical collar," Charles said. "Don’t want people to think I’m raiding the collection plate."

"If every minister were as honest as you are, more people would belong to a church."

Charles patted his son on the leg, "You’re not running for office, but I’d vote for you if you were. You don’t have to flatter me."

Jim looked at him, holding his gaze for a moment. "I’m not flattering you. I meant that."

Slightly embarrassed, Charles smiled. "Thanks. I appreciate that." They pulled out into traffic, the roads congested, as usual. "Nice car you have here."

"Just one of the perks."

"Where are the perks better?" Charles asked, knowing his son loved the little and not-so-little items that went along with his jobs. "Law or politics?"

"Hmm … that’s hard to say. They’re different, that’s for sure. I guess the perks were better for me at the firm, but I’m treated like a demi-God in the senate. Each place is nice in its own way, but I prefer law."

"That surprises me a little," Charles said. "People give up an awful lot to win a senate seat."

"Yeah, they do. But it’s never been a dream of mine. Politics is boring, if you ask me."

"Boring? Really?"

Jim laughed softly. "I shouldn’t admit to that, but I’m used to getting things done. I could get on the phone with the president of a major corporation and work out a deal—just the two of us. Nothing gets done quickly in the senate. Nothing. It’s all about compromise and waiting for the right time. If you were in office for thirty or forty years, you’d probably feel some accomplishment. But I’m just holding this place for Bob Washington. He really wants it."

"So you’ll go back to your law firm?"

"Yeah," Jim said. "That’s the plan."

* * * * * *

Charles Evans poked his silver head out of the bedroom on Monday morning, surprised to see his son showered and dressed, sitting at a table by the window, sections from several newspapers spread out in front of him. "Good morning," the younger man said when he spied his father. "Sleep well?"

"Very well. What are you up to?"

"Just reading a couple of papers."

"I assume you’ve got to do a lot of work to stay informed."

"Yeah. I read the Washington Post and the New York Times, then I get a news summary for the world from my staff."

"The world?"

"Well, not the whole world. Just the places where something is happening that might affect our interests." Jim gave his father a wry smile. "I was thinking about the founding fathers the other day, and felt a little envious that it could take over a month to get news from Europe. There’s not a minute’s time lag now. We’re on a twenty-four hour news cycle." He stood up and said, "I made some coffee. Take a look at the room service menu and we’ll order breakfast."

"You order breakfast?"

Jim raised an eyebrow. "I’m very busy. My time’s worth too much to spend it cooking."

Charles clapped his hands together. "I’ve got to remember that you’re a big boy now. You don’t need my advice on how to live."

"I’d be doing a lot better if I’d taken your advice on a lot of subjects," Jim said as he disappeared into the kitchen to fetch some coffee."

* * * * * *

After her morning walk, Catherine sat down in her office and gathered some of her monogrammed stationery and a fountain pen. She played with the cap on the pen for a few moments, then checked the ink supply, a little disappointed to find it full. She wasn’t ready to write the letter, but she knew she had to do it. The polite thing to do would be to speak to him in person, or at least on the phone, but he was very persuasive, and she didn’t want to give him the chance to talk her into backing down.

After wasting as much time as she could, she uncapped the pen once more and wrote in Italian, "My dear, Giacomo. I hate to do this in a letter, but I’ve made a decision about us. I’m not able to see you any longer. It’s not that I don’t care for you, or find you a wonderful companion and lover. But I need more than you’re able to give me."

* * * * * *

After breakfast, Jim asked, "What would you like to do today, Dad?"

"I’d like to see where you work. Would that be all right?"

"Sure. I’ve love to take you. I’ll just put on a suit and tie."

"Oh … we don’t need to go."

"No, no, don’t worry about it. I just don’t like to be on the hill in casual clothes. I like to look like I’m working—even if I’m not."

"Are you sure you don’t mind?"

Jim got up and put his hand on his father’s shoulder. "I want to take you around town. I wear a suit and tie everywhere. It’s my uniform."

Charles smiled at him. "A little different than California, huh?"

"Very. Washington is very stuffy. Very proper and traditional, too. People on my staff make fun of me because I wear Italian suits and shoes. Most of my colleagues buy American." He smiled. "One of the perks of not running for office. I don’t have to wear a single-vent suit and an oxford-cloth shirt like all of the other guys."

"Hey! I wear a single-vent suit and an oxford-cloth shirt!"

"Only because you won’t wear the shirts Catherine buys for you."

Charles made a face. "They’re too nice. I hate to eat a bowl of soup if I’m wearing one of them. And they have to be dry-cleaned. My housekeeper can just run an iron over my oxford-cloth shirts."

"Well, I guess it doesn’t matter any more. Catherine won’t be buying our Christmas and birthday presents any longer. I’ll try to think of something you’ll really like, rather than something I think you should like."

A bit awkwardly, Charles gave his son a one-armed hug. "Bringing me here was the nicest present you could have given me."

* * * * * *

Jim and Charles exited the hotel and stood in the bright sunshine for just a moment before their car arrived. The doorman helped them in, saying, "Have a good day, Senator."

Seated in the comfortable sedan, Charles asked, "Was it hard to get used to being referred to that way?"

"I still turn around sometimes to see where someone important is," Jim said, laughing. "I really haven’t settled in like I would if I were gonna be here long."

The trip to the hill was relatively short, and they both spent the trip admiring the flowering trees that dotted the streets of Washington. "I sure would enjoy having lovely trees like this," Charles said.

"Yeah, there are some definite benefits to living in a cold climate. But I wasn’t crazy about the slush and sleet we had. Even though I didn’t have to walk in it very much," Jim added, chuckling. "I’m practically carried everywhere I go."

The driver guided the car through a gate, showing some credentials to a uniformed officer. The man looked into the window, smiled and said, "Good morning, Senator Evans. Have a good day, sir."

"Thank you," Jim said, smiling.

Charles looked ahead, seeing a few black cars lined up. "Private entrance, huh?"

"We’d never get to work if we had to go through the main entrance. This makes things move along." The driver stopped and another police officer opened the door, once again greeting Jim by name.

The two men started to walk up the stairs together, but Charles stopped about halfway up. He smiled at his son, and patted him on the back. "I never thought I’d see the day my boy was a member of the senate."

"I wasn’t elected, Dad. I was just picked out of a small crowd."

"Don’t be modest," Charles said. "It’s quite an accomplishment to be in that crowd, and you know it. And no matter how you got here—you’re here—and I’m damned proud of you."

Jim smiled broadly, beaming with pleasure. "I hate to admit it, but I really wanted you to come so I could show off a little. I don’t feel like I belong, but it’s a fun club to be in—even for a short time."

When they got to the door, Jim could have sidestepped the security process, but he stayed in line and went through the metal detector with his father. They passed through a few doors, and entered the marble-clad halls of the United State Senate. "I haven’t been here since … gosh, I think it might have been when I was still in college," Charles said.

"Let’s go look around, and then I’ll take you to my office."

"Sounds good to me. Show the way, Senator."

They spent a few minutes in the old senate chamber and took a peek at the president’s room, which was now used for interviews and photo opportunities. The senate was in session, and as they got closer to the chamber, more and more people bustled past them. "Can we come back during a break?" Charles asked. "I’d love to see where you sit."

They were nearing the door and Jim said, "We’re going in now. Follow me." Jim said hello to the guard, who opened the door for them. They didn’t walk very far, since Jim’s desk was close to the back, on the right side with the other democrats.

Charles eyes were wide, and he looked around like he was afraid he’d be thrown out. Jim could tell he was uncomfortable, so he said, "Take a good look at how few people are listening to the guy who’s talking."

Charles looked closely and saw that over a third of the desks were empty. Of the senators who were present, many of them were chatting with colleagues, some were reading, and some appeared to be dozing. Wide-eyed, Charles asked, "Is it always like this?"

"No, if we’re debating something important, nearly everyone shows up. But even then, there are a million things going on." A young man approached and nodded to Jim. He put a pile of papers on the desk and started to turn away. "Jason, got a minute?"

"Uhm … sure." It was clear the man didn’t have much time, and equally clear he didn’t want to be rude.

"Just a sec," Jim said. "I’d like to introduce you to my father. Dad, this is Jason Farlington. Jason works with me."

The young man stuck his hand out. "Good to meet you, Reverend Evans."

"Nice to meet you," Charles said. "Did you come from California?"

"No, I’m an Iowan. I’ve been here for over six years now. I was with Senator Somers. Senator Evans was kind enough to keep me on."

Jim laughed. "Jason was kind enough to stay on and keep things running. I’d still be looking for the dining room if it weren’t for him."

Jason snuck a look at his watch. "Don’t believe him, sir," he said, addressing Charles. "He’s a very quick study. It takes most people a full term to really feel comfortable here."

Jim patted the man on the back. "Don’t let us keep you, Jason. You look like you’ve got your hands full."

"Got a meeting with some lobbyists from the California Cotton Growers Association. Don’t want to keep them waiting."

"Good to meet you," Charles said quietly, still nervous about talking in a normal tone of voice. As he watched Jason leave he asked, "Is that what your staff does all day? Take meetings?"

"Yep. A lot of the day. Everyone wants their share of the pot of gold."

"There’s gotta be a better way," Charles said.

"I’m sure there is, but I don’t think any country has found it yet."

* * * * * *

They left the senate chamber just after Jason did. Just outside of the room, Charles pulled Jim to a halt and stood there for a moment. "You had a pretty impressive office at the law firm, but it was nothing compared to this. I’m a little awestruck."

"If you think my desk at the back of the room is nice, wait’ll you see my office. You’ll want a tax refund!"

They took a shuttle from the Capitol to the Hart senate office building, where Jim and forty-nine other senators were quartered. The building was modern—much more modern than Charles had imagined. "This hardly looks like a government building," he said. "I thought there’d be lots of worn marble and statuary."

Jim twitched his head at the huge Alexander Calder sculpture in the center of a soaring atrium. "This building’s not even twenty years old. We have nearly the same number of senators that we’ve had for the past hundred and fifty years, but now we need three buildings to house us."

They took an elevator to the third floor and entered a rather unimpressive door. A fairly typical office layout filled the space. High modular walls created fairly private workspaces for about ten people. They walked past the cubicles and went through another door, and Jim grinned when his father’s eyes opened wide. Suddenly, they were in a large, opulent, high-ceilinged room—decorated in navy and a warm buttercream yellow. A woman, sitting behind a magnificent desk, spoke quietly into a nearly invisible headset. She gave Jim a friendly wave, then started to write on a notepad. "Nice digs, huh?" Jim asked.

"Good lord! What was that other room? The place where the people who polish the wood take a rest?"

Jim turned and pointed up. Charles followed his instructions and saw that there was a second floor above the office they’d just left. The upper floor had a huge glass window that would allow the people on that floor visual access to the reception area. "My staff is on two floors. All of the senators have sixteen foot ceilings, and the staff quarters are divided in two to save a little space. The upper floor has all of my legislative staff and the lower floor has my schedulers, personal assistants and the press staff. Then I have a bunch of people who work in the mailroom. I get a lot of mail."

"I had no idea," Charles said, stunned.

"I’ve got over 8,000 square feet. That’s a damned big office!"

"I’m almost afraid to see where you sit," Charles said. "Or do you lie on a pile of gilt cushions?"

"I’m working on that," Jim said. "But for now, I just have a desk." He opened the heavy, painted door and escorted his father inside. "But it’s a nice desk, isn’t it?"

"Nice?" Charles put his hands on his hips and did a slow turn, taking in the huge desk, two velvet sofas and wooden table with six chairs. "I’m paying for this!"

"And for the fresh flowers," Jim said, indicating two elaborate arrangements. "Those come every other day."

"Your office in San Francisco looked like a phone booth compared to this!"

"I know. This is part of what makes people want these jobs. You get used to being important, and everyone here makes you feel very, very important." He gestured to one of the sofas. "Have a seat and I’ll get us something to drink."

The words were barely out of his mouth when his secretary knocked and poked her head in. "Tea? Coffee? Soft drinks? Bagels? Danish?"

"Whoa!" Jim said, laughing. "You’re going to make my father think I’m always treated this well."

The woman winked and said, "You are."

"Margaret Aimes, this is my father."

"Reverend Evans, it’s so good to meet you," Margaret said, shaking Charles’ hand. "It’s so nice to put a face with a name."

"Same here," Charles said. "It certainly looks like Jim’s being very well taken care of."

"We just love him," Margaret said, looking entirely sincere. "He’s so much easier to get along with than Senator Somers." She clapped her hand over her mouth and said, "Forgive me for speaking ill of the dead."

"I can’t forgive sins," Charles said, "but as sins go, that one barely registers."

"Oh, I can see where Senator Evans gets his charm from," Margaret said.

"You must pay her well," Charles said, laughing.

"Not well enough. And I’d love some juice, Margaret," Jim said. "How about you, Dad? Margaret can magically make anything you want appear."

"I don’t want to be any trouble. Coffee’s fine."

"What do you really want?" Margaret asked. "It’s no trouble. Really."

"A decaf cappuccino?" he asked tentatively.

"Back in a minute," she said. "What kind of juice, Senator?"

"Surprise me," Jim said.

Margaret left, and the men sat on opposing sofas. "If I were you, I’d hole up in here and refuse to leave in December," Charles said.

"I’m ready to go," Jim said. He looked contemplative for a moment, then said, "I’m even more ready than I was a short time ago."

"Why’s that?"

"Oh, things are … not going well between Kayla and me."

"Mmm." Charles just nodded. "I was wondering if you were still seeing each other."

"Yeah, we are. But she thinks she’ll stay in Washington when my term’s up. I … I thought we might go back to California and live together or at least work together. I really rely on her, Dad. She’s …" He looked away, and shrugged his shoulders in an oddly adolescent way.

Margaret knocked on the door and brought in a tray with a tall glass of pineapple juice and a steaming cup of cappuccino. She left before they could finish thanking her and both men chuckled at the words that hadn’t been said.

"Tell me more about Kayla," Charles said.

"It’s not just Kayla. It’s … all of the women in my life."

"There are … others?"

"Oh! No, no, just Kayla. I mean that I’m having a hard time with Kayla and Catherine and Jamie. I used to think I knew how to treat women and what they wanted, but in the last year … I’ve either gotten stupid or I was deluding myself."

"I don’t think you’ve gotten stupid, son," Charles said, looking at Jim over the rim of his coffee cup.

"Smooth, Dad. Very smooth. So you think I haven’t ever known how to deal with women?"

"Oh, you and your mother got along very well. Maybe too well."

"That’s a little Freudian. Care to elaborate?"

Charles nodded. "I don’t mean to analyze you. But you could do no wrong where your mother was concerned. I’m not sure it was good for you to be able to sweet-talk her into anything you wanted."

Jim took a drink of his juice, his forehead creased in thought. "I don’t remember it being like that."

"It was. It certainly wasn’t intentional, but I think we set you up to be a very successful man. Your mother treated you like a little prince and I set goals for you that you could never quite reach."

Waving him off, Jim said, "Don’t be silly. You were great parents."

"No, we weren’t," Charles said, his voice somber. "I was consumed by my career when you were young. Power and prestige meant everything to me. I put those same warped goals on you, son, and you did your best to make me proud of you."

"So you set goals for me. What’s wrong with that?"

"I think you believed that I’d love you more if you met those goals," Charles said. He looked like he was about to cry. "And to be honest, I might have. It’s only since I’ve had my spiritual awakening that I’ve realized love can’t be attained or earned. It just is."

"Come on, Dad. You’re being silly. There’s nothing wrong with the way you and mom raised me. You have nothing to apologize for."

"You’re wrong, Jim," Charles said. "We both made a lot of mistakes. And I think some of our mistakes have contributed to your problems with the women in your life."

The younger man got up and went to his window, looking at the expansive view of The Mall. "That’s a lot of psycho-babble, Dad. I don’t believe in coming up with excuses for why I do things. I’ve made my mistakes and I need to learn from them."

"I can’t argue with that, son." He paused for a moment, waiting for Jim to look at him. "But if you’ve learned from them, why do you keep making them?"

His face flushing, Jim asked, "What does that mean?"

"You heard me. You have a very difficult time allowing the women in your life to have their own lives … their own opinions … their own needs."

"Oh, Jesus," Jim snapped. "Now you sound like Kayla. Or Jamie."

Charles settled back into his seat and looked at his son until Jim reluctantly made eye contact with him. "I’m not a psychic. How would I know that Kayla felt that way?"

Jim grumbled quietly, then walked back to the sofa and sat down heavily. "Damn it, Dad, what am I supposed to do? How do I change?"

"I’m not sure," Charles said. "But I think you have to."

* * * * * *

That night, Jim and Charles went to one of the restaurants populated with Washington insiders. Charles was not-so-discreetly looking around, trying to see if he recognized anyone. Jim joined him, his lips pursed. "Mmm … a couple of congressmen and a bunch of lobbyists. All those guys do is go out to lunch and dinner. I don’t know how they don’t all weight five hundred pounds."

"Then I’m with the most important man in the place," Charles said, with a teasing smile.

"Yeah, you’re a lucky guy." The waiter came by and took their drink orders, and when he left there was a stilted silence.

"You’ve been pretty quiet this afternoon," Charles said. "Is everything all right?"

Jim didn’t answer right away. He was obviously debating whether to reply, and he eventually let out a breath and said, "I’m thinking about what you said this afternoon."

"Mmm."

"I have a hard time believing you don’t have any suggestions for ways to change."

Charles held up his hands. "I don’t know of any shortcuts. And I’m sure you know the difficult ways to change behavior."

"What? Therapy?"

"That works for a lot of people. But it’s a waste of time if you’re not motivated and ready to be brutally honest."

The server stopped and set their drinks in front of them. Jim took a sip of his Manhattan, smiling slightly while he savored the expertly made drink. "I take it you don’t think I’m motivated," Jim said while he played with the cherry stem sticking over the lip of his glass.

"I didn’t say that." Charles sipped his wine, an enigmatic smile on his face.

"But you do think it."

"No, I don’t. I don’t have any idea how motivated you are, Jim. Only you know that."

"I could get motivated if I thought it worked," Jim said, scowling.

"Therapy does work—for the right person—in the right circumstances. It’s worked for me. It’s worked for Jamie."

"Yeah, it’s made Jamie into an entirely different person! She was a fantastic kid before she got involved with that lesbian class and started seeing that shrink."

"Ryan’s not on your list of evil influences?" Charles asked lightly.

Jim smirked at his father. "I honestly don’t think Ryan has influenced her as much as that therapy has. Ryan seems like she wants Jamie and me to be close. She really seems to value family."

"She does," Charles agreed. "But she’s been an integral factor in a lot of Jamie’s changes."

Looking frustrated, Jim said, "Oh, the changes aren’t all bad, and you know it. It’s just that Jamie’s so short with me. It’s like she’s ready to jump on me for the slightest thing. I don’t think she and I ever had a serious argument before this last year, and now it seems like all we do is fight."

"Maybe you’re making up for lost time."

"What?"

"It’s not normal for parents and kids to have a perfectly smooth relationship. If you’re not having some ups and downs … someone’s hiding something."

"She seemed perfectly happy to me," Jim said. "Perfectly."

"That’s not how I saw her."

Jim waited for his father to continue, but he didn’t add a word. Impatiently, Jim asked, "Are you going to tell me how you saw her? Or do I have to guess?"

"I’ll tell you if you want to know."

"Of course I want to know. I do value your opinion, you know."

"You don’t ask for it very often," Charles said neutrally.

Eyes narrowing, Jim said, "I’m asking now."

"All right." He pursed his lips and looked at a spot to the left of Jim’s head. He thought for a few moments, then said, "Jamie always seemed like a girl who wanted to do the right thing."

"And that’s bad?"

"Only when she’s not the one who’s deciding what’s right," Charles said. "Jamie wanted to please you and Catherine—you in particular. She wanted to be the perfect daughter, the perfect granddaughter, the perfect student. But she didn’t seem to get much pleasure out of striving for those goals. She seemed … lifeless, in a way. Like she was playing a role rather than making up her own mind about her life." He took a long sip of his drink and set it down with a thump. "I’ve seen more joy in that girl’s face in the last year than I did in the previous twenty-one. And I’m damned glad for it."

"She still loves you," Jim grumbled. He was slumped in his seat, looking like he did when he was a teenager.

"She loves you too, Jim. The fact that she’s hung in there with some of the pranks you’ve pulled proves that."

Jim slowly shook his head, looking completely defeated. "I don’t know if she loves me or not. Sometimes I think we’ll have one of those relationships where we get together just to argue."

"It doesn’t have to be that way, Jim. I know Jamie doesn’t want that."

Raising one dark blond eyebrow, Jim asked, "You know that for a fact?"

"I do. She loves you very much and she wishes you could get past some of the things that have been causing friction. But there’s only so much she can do."

"So … the ball’s in my court, huh?"

"Jamie hasn’t said that. But I would."

* * * * * *

On Tuesday morning, Ryan was unnaturally verbal at her group therapy session. As soon as it was her turn, she said, "I can’t drive anymore."

She had a strange look on her face, and Ellen wasn’t sure if she was going to continue. After a few seconds, the therapist asked, "How long has it been since you felt like driving?"

"Oh." Ryan nodded to herself. "I can drive if I’m alone. I just can’t do it if anyone’s in the car with me. I think Jamie’s gonna figure it out pretty soon, ’cause I used to drive every time we rode together."

"And you don’t want to tell her?" Ellen asked. "She might be able to help you, Ryan."

The young woman looked at her for a second, eying her warily. "How could she help me?"

Turning her gaze to the group, Ellen asked, "Anyone have any ideas?"

Helen raised her hand. "I wasn’t able to go to my husband’s office to pick up his things after he died. They kept calling me, reminding me, and every time I felt so humiliated that I couldn’t face it." She looked at Ryan. "I stopped answering the phone, just so I didn’t have to explain why I couldn’t come."

"What did you do?" Ryan asked, intensely interested.

"A friend was visiting one day when the office called, and she could tell something was wrong. She offered to go for me," she said, smiling fondly. "But just hearing how easy it seemed for her to go gave me some courage. I called the secretary back, and my friend and I went that very afternoon." She paused for a second, then wiped her eye with the back of her hand. "There were some wonderful things in that box. I’m glad I got them."

Ryan smiled at her, the empathetic look conveying her understanding. "I’m glad you did, too."

"Do you think that Jamie might be able to go on some short rides around town with you, Ryan? Just for a little experiment?"

"She would," Ryan said. "But I’m not ready. It’s … too much. Too much."

"What is?"

Pursing her lips in her most annoyed fashion, Ryan said, "She already has to change her schedule around to go on my road trips. I don’t want to ask her to do anything else. It’s enough."

"But you need more," Ellen gently suggested.

"I don’t want her to worry about me," Ryan said. "I’m fine when I’m alone. I don’t feel much different when I’m walking around town or driving. But when I’m with her or her mom, I can’t relax if we’re outside. Everybody looks like a killer. If I’m a passenger, I can keep an eye on more things. Nobody’s gonna sneak up on us again," she said, her eyes burning.

Ellen didn’t want to press her, and no one else volunteered to speak, so she let it drop. But she made a mental note to bring it up again the next week to see if Ryan would consider taking another step in her recovery.

* * * * * *

Dinner was waiting when Ryan got home from practice on Thursday night. Her nose twitched, trying to guess what they were having as she went into the kitchen.

Jamie turned just as Ryan was about to touch her, and the smaller woman jumped. "You were sneaking up on me again!"

Ryan put her arms around Jamie and hugged her tight. "I was not. I’m just quiet."

"I think you learned how to be quiet so you can sneak up on people." Jamie let her head drop back and looked up at her lover. "Why haven’t I been kissed?"

Rather than answer, Ryan’s head bent and she kissed the soft lips that always made her feel like she was home. "Missed you," she said.

Jamie hugged her, holding on tightly. When she moved away, she asked, "Did you really? You’re usually too busy to miss me."

Ryan sat on a stool and rested her head on her hand. "Yeah, I did. I just found out that someone I really admire died, and I was bummed. You always make me feel better when I’m upset."

Jamie was holding her before the brunette finished her sentence. "Honey! Who died?"

Resting her head on her lover’s breast, Ryan said, "W.D. Hamilton."

"Uhm … should I know him?"

Nodding, Ryan said, "You should, but I’m sure you don’t. He’ll probably be a household name in a hundred years if his theories hold up." She looked at Jamie and saw total befuddlement. "I’m sorry." She pulled back. "He was a biologist. One of the most original thinkers … ever."

Squeezing her partner’s shoulder, Jamie walked back to the stove to finish the meal. "Tell me about him."

"The sucky thing is that he was perfectly healthy," Ryan said. "Only about sixty-five. But he contracted malaria and died while he was in the Congo. He was investigating the theory that AIDS came from infected polio vaccines given in central Africa in the 1950’s."

"Wow. Is that really possible?"

"Sure. I’ve got the book that explains the theory, but I haven’t had time to read it."

Jamie shook her head. "There’s so much we don’t know. You try to wipe out one disease, and you wind up killing millions more."

Ryan gave her a thoughtful look. "That’s one of the reasons I worry about being a scientist."

"What?"

"We know so little," Ryan said. "Sometimes I feel like we’re stumbling around in almost complete darkness. I mean, Hamilton was a big deal … a very big deal. But what was he able to do … to really do during his life?"

She folded her arms and laid her head on them, a pose Jamie found impossibly endearing.

"One of the great thinkers of our time, and even though his contributions to biology are huge, I don’t think one life has been saved because of his work." She frowned and mumbled something to herself. "Sometimes I think I’d better stick with math."

"You don’t have to decide tonight, baby. You just have to decide what kind of dressing you want on your salad."

Ryan got up and walked over to her partner. "Your choice. The chef knows best. All I know is that I’m hungry."

"That’s my girl," the blonde said, and gave her another hug. "You’ll feel better after you eat. You always do."

"Then why do I ever feel bad?" Ryan asked. "I’m always eating."

* * * * * *

The next afternoon, Ryan had an hour free before practice, so she found a sunny spot on the lawn near the softball field and pulled out her cell phone. Hitting the speed dial, she waited a minute, then said, "Hey. It’s me."

"I thought you’d lost my number," Ally Webster said. "Where the hell have you been?"

"Running my ass off," Ryan admitted. "I know this is hard to believe, but this is the first unscheduled hour I’ve had in weeks."

"Where are you? I hear birds chirping."

"I’m lying on the grass near the softball field. I have practice soon."

"You guys are doing great," Ally said. "Sara keeps me up to date. She gets an e-mail about your and Jamie’s teams."

"You should come see us play," Ryan said. "Although we probably play when you’re working."

"My weekends are pretty booked," Ally said. "Makes it hard to spend as much time with Sara as I’d like."

"How’s it going?" Ryan asked. "Still hot and heavy?"

Ally laughed. "None of your business, hot stuff. You know I don’t kiss and tell."

"I wasn’t asking about the sex," Ryan said, chuckling. "Sheesh! You do have a relationship outside of the bedroom, don’t you?"

"Yeah," Ally drawled. "What do you want to know about it?"

"I wanna know how you both are," Ryan said, frustrated with her friend’s reticence. "What’s going on? Are you mad at me?"

"How can I be mad at you? I haven’t seen you. Or talked to you. Or gotten a post card."

"Okay, okay," Ryan said. "You’ve got me dead to rights. But I did send you an e-mail."

"After I called you," Ally said. "That’s what I do when I don’t wanna talk to someone."

Ryan was quiet for a moment, debating how frank to be. "I really don’t want you to take this personally," she said. "I haven’t had time for any of my friends. Hell, I haven’t had time for Jamie. I’m … in over my head."

"Aw, sugar, tell me what’s going on?"

"Nothing bad," Ryan said. "I’m just really overscheduled. I’m not seeing my family enough, I haven’t taken my poor dog for a walk in a month, Caitlin could’ve learned to read for all I know!"

Ally laughed. "I kinda doubt you’re that disconnected, but I get your message. And I won’t take it personally."

"I feel disconnected," Ryan said, feeling a little uncomfortable when the words left her mouth.

"Tell me about it," Ally said. "I’m your friend."

"I know," Ryan said. "But I can’t explain it. Things just aren’t clicking for me right now. I’m just trying to hold on until we graduate. Then I can reconnect with Jamie. It seems like all we do together is eat and sleep."

"How’s Jamie doing?" Ally asked. "We saw her piece in the paper. That must have been fun."

"Yeah. A real blast," Ryan said, chuckling mirthlessly. "She’s good, though. Too busy, but good."

"We’re gonna have to get together," Ally said. "When will you have more time?"

"After graduation. We’re taking time off after that. I plan on sleeping through June."

"I know you, Rock. That’ll last about one day, then you’ll be itching to get going again. Face it, you’re hyperactive."

"I guess I can’t argue with that," Ryan said. "You’d know better than most."

"Yeah, I guess I would. We had some great times together, baby, but it’s nice to be in a relationship, isn’t it?"

"Sure is," Ryan said. "I was about to blow a gasket."

Ally laughed. "I’m glad you’re happily hooked up. But don’t forget your old buddies, okay? We both love you."

"I love you guys, too," Ryan said, the words feeling strange rolling off her tongue. "We’ll get together as soon as we can, okay?"

"Deal. Give my best to Jamie."

"I will. Same for Sara. Bye."

Ryan hung up and rolled onto her back again. There was something very strange about talking with Ally on the phone. She knew she could get used to it over time, but she wasn’t sure they’d ever be able to be platonic friends. Feeling glum, she pulled out her laptop and started writing a long e-mail to her cousin Aisling, always feeling better when she vented her feelings to the person she could trust with every secret.

* * * * * *